Why Does the Mirror Move Like Me?
by Mackatlaw
Summary: Psychological horror about Angel and Angelus. He didn’t remember how he got here. Doyle had asked him to come help, was the last thing he could recall. There had been a demon. But then, there was always a demon.
1. Chapter 1

"Why does the mirror move like me?"

By Mackatlaw

Chapter One: The human thing to do

Angel followed the path of cobblestones up the steep driveway, where he'd just come out of the white house at the bottom of the steep curve. Mostly covered by trees, it was a modest little split-level building, almost cozy, and slightly hidden by the turn before one got out into the residential street. He didn't remember how he got here. Doyle had asked him to come help, was the last thing he could recall. There had been a demon. But then, there was always a demon.

He rubbed his clean-shaven face ruefully. He had never had much of a beard before he died, only a bit of shadow, but he shaved every night nonetheless. After all, it was the human thing to do. Angel prided himself on being human. He had a soul, that brightly glowing light that he had seen several times encased in an Orb of Thessala, but there was more to being human than having a soul. That's why he drank blood from a coffee mug, ate solid food when he could endure having bowel movements, and slept in a bed, not a coffin.

He looked around uncertainly. He was in a quiet suburb somewhere. Lawns were well-kept, with enough green trim to show that people cared, but not excessively. The mailboxes needed no concrete pillbox protection, but were carefully tended with jaunty red flags, no need for concrete protection. He saw a few cars parked in driveways, mainly middle-class Hondas and Chevrolets, with a shiny red TransAm hidden under one person's garage. Probably a teenager, or more likely from the newness, a doctor who'd finally been able to afford the car they wanted in high school. Nobody was out playing, though. Judging from the lack of activity and the angle of the sun, it was probably somewhere between three, when the schools let out, and five, when people drove home from

work. Sun? He blinked and checked again. Then he rubbed a face with suddenly aching eyeballs.

He stepped hastily under the shade of a tall spreading tree, prepared to dive for further sanctuary under a nearby car, when he caught himself. If that was really the sun and he was really on his own world, he'd be a pile of ash, gently drifting in the breeze. He didn't understand why he'd even stepped out of the house if the sun was out and not noticed until now. He'd ambled out like it was the easiest thing in the world, like he when he'd never taken a step outside during the day for over two hundred years without being afraid of going to hell or oblivion.

He felt his fangs, which had come out at danger. The neighborhood still looked peaceful, but something was very wrong, so wrong that it had lulled the survival instinct to sleep. Even now, he kept wanting to shrug it off, not worry about what was happening. He forced his fangs to retract, pushing down on them with one hand and the vampiric facial folds with the other until he knew he looked human again. His lack of control shamed him, but the rules were wrong now. Vampires, with or without a soul, should explode in daylight, not be worrying about their potential afterlife.

Wait. What had he been doing in the house? He tried to think but couldn't remember. He'd walked up the driveway. But he couldn't see back to what was in that house. He'd been putting one foot after the other on the cement. Before that, sometime in the distant past, he remembered Doyle coming to him with a problem. That much was still clear. Just nothing between that and now.

He'd been sitting in the hotel office early one evening, feet propped up on his desk, disconsolately leafing through one of Cordelia's women's magazines. He wasn't really paying much attention to the words, but more to the scent she'd left behind on it. Apple blossom conditioner, some facial powder and cosmetic, but mainly a woman smell that was all hers, musky, sensual, out-of-reach.He sighed and threw the magazine down. Cordelia and he were still an "item", he supposed, and sometimes trysted, as they called it back in Ireland. He'd usually called it wenching, since he was rarely in polite company. Second sons of rich parents could afford to go and be rakes. After all, there was always more money where that came from, and no consequences as long as you told the priest on Sunday.

He should know. He'd made enough of them give him their own last confession before he'd ripped out their tongues, and then their blood with the rest of the flesh. If he was feeling particularly artistic, he made Drusilla take them first. The vampire strength of the madwoman could hold them down easily, especially if she'd sampled the vintage a little ahead of time. 1805 English deacon was one of the best, he thought. Protestant, of course. Angelus didn't spare any Catholics out of memory for his Irish upbringing, though; he simply became more creative instead.

The cries of helpless pleasure as the sanctimonious bastards got to come and violate their chastity vows always brought Angelus to an erection. Once the priest finished panting under the cool pleasures (well, warm at this point, really; Dru always liked a little blood with her pain) of the undead monster on top of him, Drusilla would roll off and let Angelus have a turn. Sometimes this was pain and beatings and knives; sometimes it was sex. If the priest was young and good-looking, he offered a choice of sodomy or something excruciating with the crucifix. Most held out to the bitter meaning of what "martyrdom" really meant. The ones who resisted got taken anyway, only it was a lot more painful than otherwise. Everyone died in the end, of course. Anything Angelus ever promised was a lie and a cheat.

In the present, he shifted uncomfortably in his padded swivel chair, and crossed his legs. He didn't want to be thinking about what aroused Angelus, but his mind wandered there anyway. It had been so long since Cordelia let him in her bed, and aside from her, he didn't have many other sexual experiences this century to draw on. He thought about Buffy briefly and winced, picking up his coffee mug for a quick sip of pig's blood to distract him. Of course, that got him thinking about richer human blood and the "good old days". That hadn't been him, that had been somebody else, somebody soulless, but he still had the memories, enjoyable and painful at the same time.

Angel had swiven scores of women in his wenching days, back before Darla and his second life. Had shown him the error of his ways. She'd been a traditionalist, even buried him in a coffin because her children always took a few days to rise. She wanted him to have a proper funeral so he could terrorize his family when she rose. He never understood why she chose him, though he'd asked her a hundred times. She would always shrug, and say in her femme fatale, bitch manner, "Looked like fun." Angelus understood, though. That was all the reason he ever needed. Darla was worse than a demon from hell. Given the choice between your average demon, here on earth anyway, and Darla, he'd take the demon any time. The demon breed might run out of ideas, but Darla never would.

He'd surprised her, though, because nothing could have prepared her for the smiling demon, charming with a grin and a thirst for cruelty like all the devils in hell, who rose from the churchyard in three days. When he woke up, he decided to become worse than any mortal man, and few would disagree. Murders, rapes, brutalities, broken homes, mental anguish, outright torture, he'd done most of the sins he could think of, though he had his favorites. Sex and violence went so well together.

He rarely kept the priests, though sometimes he'd take an altar boy as a catamite, but more often he'd choose a pretty little nun and take her with his troupe of vampires, monsters all. He, Spike, Dru and Darla would teach the nun everything they could think of until they'd broken her. When they were done, usually they'd kill her and dump her by the roadside, though sometimes they gave her to a local brothel if she was still pretty. It gave pocket money, after all, and added extra spice.

Leafing through the magazine, one particular blonde beauty made him think of a girl he'd known a long time ago. Her hair was up in a bun, with a few artfully arranged curls trailing out like they wanted to be free. One year, in the eighteenth century, he'd made a bet with William the Bloody, better known as Spike for his habit of nailing people up by railroad spikes. They'd been intrigued by a French nun they'd picked up after ravaging a convent. The picture looked too much like her, who in turn looked too much like his old love Buffy, for his peace of mind.

But then the door opened, and he lost his train of thought. Probably for the best. He hadn't really liked where that train was going. He looked across the room at his best friend, irritated despite himself. Half-Irish, half-demon, Doyle had proven to be a good man with a true heart. No matter how Angel felt, his guide and ally could cheer him up.

"Yes, Doyle? What's on your mind?"

"Uh, sorry to bother you, boss, but I came across something interesting, and unless you've got something better going on, you might want to listen. I know you need your quiet time and all that, " he cocked his head and quirked his mouth, looking at the Mademoiselle magazine, "but we've got real people, not ink and paper, who could use some help."

"Ah... I was just doing some research."

"Of course you were. Now, as I was sayin'..."

Angel grinned and grabbed his coat. Doyle was always good for a laugh, unless he was in his cups and wallowing in his darker moods, and right now almost anything sounded like an improvement over personal time with the demons kept buried in his particular basement. Besides, he'd already read the magazine twice.

He grabbed his gentleman's great coat, more stylish than practical if he was forced to admit, but it reminded him of the styles he'd grown up with. He'd never admit it, too, but he loved to put his hands in the pockets of the duster, hunch slightly, and talk the tough guy talk, be the knight in faded armor. "Down these mean streets a man must walk..." Chandler's Philip Marlowe was a personal hero of his. Misunderstood, unappreciated, but he did the job and he did what he thought was right. Tarnished but still out there walking.

Angel had seen every detective movie Hollywood ever made in black and white, and most of the ones in color. God, he loved Hollywood, magic better than the real thing. His friends wouldn't let him use the movie buff deck in Trivial Pursuit anymore because it would come down to a race between him and Lorne. No one else was even close. He'd always been a light sleeper, either as himself or as the demon possessing his body. When he'd gotten his soul back and was tormenting himself on a regular basis, he spent a lot of time in movie theaters in the fifties. He was a light sleeper, soul or not. Angelus could sleep the sleep of the cheerily damned, because there was a hell and he was already a demon in it. Buffy should have sent Angelus to hell, not him. That'd been the plan. If Willow had just let his soul be wherever it was, everything would have been right, he knew it. Angelus would have been just one more monster, and he, Angel, would be wherever he was meant to be.

But was that right? He stopped, consumed with doubt again. He deserved hell, he knew he had, because Angelus had just been Angel without restraint. The soul didn't have a personality; it was just the immortal part, the chain of conscience weighing down the rest. The "I" that thought was there all along, in every memory, making him responsible for Angelus's crimes. But wouldn't that mean Angel and Angelus were the same being, only with a soul and without?

Angelus had told Buffy that more than once. But then, what about Heaven? Angel, once Liam, didn't really believe that anymore. He thought that the soul might be immortal, but the self wasn't. The soul was God's, or whoever's, way of keeping people under control. So the soul might go back to heaven when you died, but the "you" that thought didn't.

Break. Interruption. His mind skipped back to the present, wherever that was.

He walked up the street in the daylit suburb, confused, but enjoying the sensation of not bursting into fire. Not really a sensation, he supposed, more the absense of one, but the feeling of sunlight's heat on his skin, pleasantly warming, was like he remembered from his breathing days. He knew something was wrong, knew he couldn't be both vampire and human, couldn't have fangs and walk around in sunlight, but if this was a hallucination or a dream, he wanted to enjoy while it lasted. In the distance he could hear kids playing, but he couldn't see them. He heard the sounds of people moving around in their houses. Any moment now, the rest of the family would be pulling their cars in the driveway from work.

But he kept not waking up. First rule of supernatural investigation, then: if it seems real, treat it as such until you found out otherwise. The bruises were less that way. He needed to know where he was as much as he could. If he walked up to the end of the street, he'd hopefully see a sign and know a street name. Then he could go find a phone and call somebody to come get him. He wondered who, though. Cordelia? Wesley? Gunn? Cordelia would assume he was delusional and tell him to not go out into the sun until she got there. Gunn would require too many questions first that he couldn't answer, and he still didn't know the man very well. Wesley was probably the first choice, since he'd come out anyway and figure out a theory before he got halfway there. He'd rather see Cordelia, though. But that was for more reasons than the practical. He missed her touch, her kiss, even her scoldings. He didn't know if it was the shrew or the ditz he loved, or maybe the way she balanced both. Why did he love her? He didn't know. A stray thought said, "Not for her mind, that's for sure**." **Those weren't his thoughts anymore, weren't the kind of man he was now, so he pushed it out of his awareness into elsewhere.

But the street kept winding into other streets, turning into a much larger subdivision than he'd realized, and try as he might, he couldn't find a street sign. He could always knock on a door and ask to use their phone, ask where he was and say he'd gotten turned around. Only, oddly shy, he didn't want to disturb anyone's privacy. So he wandered, peaceful, but not getting anywhere. This could have gone on for a few minutes, it could have been an hour. He'd lost track of time. But the sun hadn't gone down yet, so he knew it couldn't have been too long.

Then there was another break in his thoughts, and he realized he was walking beside Cordelia, only it wasn't Cordy. She looked like her but wasn't, and that was significant, only he didn't know why. They walked for a few minutes and talked about nothing in particular, nothing he remembered later, except for the last part of the conversation.

"I'm attracted to you," he admitted, stealing a quick glance at her, then looking away. He knew it wasn't appropriate, but he wanted to be honest around her. Looking down at his face, she smiled. "Don't worry about it. Really, don't let it trouble your mind. You have other things to worry about. Why don't you let me give you a ride to where you need to go?"

Break. The movie projector skipped, his mind blanked. They were riding in her car, navigating effortlessly through the streets, but he could never tell where they were or how to find his way back. But she knew the way, and he trusted her. They were almost to her place, which was the place he needed to go, and then she stopped the sedan. "I've taken you as far as I can go. You'll need to catch up and meet me there." She looked sympathetic.

He got out and watched the sedan drive away. It went up a hill and turned right into another street, and he knew that's where he needed to be, she would be there if he could just catch up. He started walking, trying to keep her in his sights, but she was gone. He knew the way now, though.

Then he got to the top of the hill. Disconnect. Break. Interrupt. The film jumped again, a splice. Doyle was saying something in a hallway. The electric lights splashed off his pallor. The rich red carpet was soft under his feet. They were looking for someone who would help them find the demon. All they had to do was open the door and ask them. Doyle said something that made him laugh. Made Liam laugh. No. He was Angel. He was Angel. He didn't deserve to be Angelus.

Doyle said he should open the door first just to be safe. "After all, I'm only part demon, you know?" Doyle was trying harder than usual to be funny, he noticed. But Angel put it down to nerves. Doyle was his best friend, after all. He didn't mean anything by it. He knew how much Angel struggled to keep his demon in check, but the demon Angelus had been forced on him. Doyle had grown up with his heritage, had a long time to be used to it. Doyle was good. He had a soul.

Angel opened the door.

Light. Light so bright it washed everything away, took it all away, made his mind go away. A mocking grin, as Angel saw his friend's true face, the grin that was laughing at the world because it found the world amusing, not because it liked it. And last words from Doyle, the last thing he remembered: "Place not your trust in demons, old friend. You really should have remembered."

Next: the Chapel Perilous


	2. Chapter 2

The Chapel Perilous

By Mackatlaw

When Angel awoke, he was inside a small chapel, sitting on a wooden pew and facing the front of the church, where he could see the altar and silver cross of the sanctuary. There were rows to the left and right, but no one else sitting in them. He turned around in his seat. At the other end was a stone wall and a baptismal basin. Stained glass windows showed St. George slaying the dragon and the Archangel Michael throwing Satan down to the pit of hell.

Angel stood up, uncertain. The only movement in the room was a swirl and a splash from the basin, so he slowly made his way there. Inside, the water went gently widdershins, counter-clockwise, and then stilled. Revealed was his own face, grinning back at him terribly, and then the water showed him back at the hotel, talking to his friends. Only it wasn't him. It was Angelus. The smiling monster, welcomed as family, reclined on a plush red chair, silver nails in the upholstery studding the material like the silver given to Judas. His shirt had been loosened and he feigned weakness as the others clustered around him. Cordelia and Wesley looked concerned, offered him a drink of warm blood, asked him how the demon had gotten away. Doyle was nowhere to be found.

The blood in a coffee cup was received gratefully. Probably pig's blood from the fridge, and then microwaved on low, or heated over a saucepan, the way Angel liked it. It tasted better that way. Nothing compared with straight from the vein, though. The dark-haired man in the vision smiled and drank the offering from his friends, all the time eyeing their own necks and the location of the weapons cabinet. No one else noticed, but Angel could tell. After all, it was what he would do. The man's eyes were too firmly fixed on his friend's gazes, allaying suspicion, while peripheral vision absorbed the important details.

Angel cursed, then caught himself. He was in a chapel, after all. Was that any way to ask for the help of God? He didn't see God here, though. This was bad. What he needed was a way to switch places, a way to get the attention of that smarmy-faced bastard, so quick to lie and pleasing of voice, and bring him where he could get his hands on him.

Angelus continued to smooth-talk his best friends, Cordy and Gunn and Wesley.

"I'm glad you got there in time. That sorcerous ward could have trapped me unconscious for days if it hadn't been for you."

"Thank Doyle," said Wesley. "If he hadn't checked your appointment book and gone looking for you, we might not have known where you were until it was too late. A pity we can't find the sorceror, but I can only assume he was scared off by our visit. He's still out there, though. Whoever set that trap up meant business, but they wanted you in one piece."

Gunn nodded grimly, the black man in rare agreement with his friend. They were more prone to argue, and to agree only at the last. "My bet's on Wolfram and Hart. They've got a score to settle with you, and they'd like to have you awake while they do. Those guys ain't never gonna forgive."

"Probably there was an extraction team ready to come pick you up, and then you'd wake up in a room with a lot of knives and other very unpleasant people," Wesley added.

Wes and Gunn shared a cool look, for once in total agreement.

"Speaking of teams, where's the rest of ours? Shouldn't Cordy be back by now?" Angelus said.

"I'm not sure what's keeping her," Wesley frowned, then added reassuringly, "Doyle and her will be fine. He just wanted the two of them to check the entrances to the basement, make sure no one had come in."

Back in the "Chapel," watching the vision in the basin, Angel howled. It was a scream of frustration, drawn from pain and sorrow. He wanted to tear down the pews, smash the windows, but none of that would bring him closer to the waking world, the real one where he could tell his friends what was happening. But how? None of his skills, his training, his vaunted status as a Champion would help him now. He'd been abandoned by the Powers. Or had he? He stopped, considering. Previously when he'd become Angelus, he'd been completely subsumed or replaced, reverted to his prior personality while in possession of the same memories. But if he could be aware of what was happening, here inside the little church, then perhaps he should listen for a message. What were the Powers trying to tell him?

"You'll need to catch up and meet me there."

Those were the words the woman who was Cordelia, but not Cordelia, had told him. If he was where he was supposed to meet her, then where was she? Unless... Unless she was God. Or an angel, a messenger, or his mind's way of representing the Powers That Be to him. Angel was a lapsed Catholic, but he knew what people were supposed to do in a church. They prayed.

Inside the communion basin, Angelus discussed strategy with the unsuspecting friends and waited for the other two to return. He seemed recovered now, the chatter masking his real intentions. "Maybe we should go check on Cordy and Doyle? They might have run into trouble. Hasn't it been long enough now?"

Whatever was waiting in the basement, Angel knew that he couldn't let it have his friends. He didn't know what was happening to Cordelia and he didn't know why Angelus wanted everyone in the basement. He only knew that he couldn't, mustn't, let it happen. So he sat back down on a bench, turning his attention resolutely from the evil vision in the water, and pulled out a kneeler. Bending his knees, he turned his attention to prayer.

"Powers that Be, I ask..." He stopped, disgusted. The Powers showed up in his life with names and faces he could hardly relate to. They'd made him their Champion, but never told him the rules. He'd begged them for help, fought their servants sometimes, done their bidding. But he'd never understood how they could be cruel while being kind, how their justice lacked mercy, and their imposed penance seemed without forgiveness. The only rules he knew for sure, the only faces he could understand, were the ones he had grown up with: Father, Son and Holy Ghost. That had to be part of the Powers somehow, or nothing made sense. If he was going to implore anyone, it was going to be the way he knew best.

He continued the prayer, going back to the faith that he had turned his back on so many years ago. "Hail Mary, full of Grace..." He said that, then the Lord's Prayer. Now he wasn't sure what to say, but he went on anyway, feeling awkward. Saying the words out loud make them say too real, but maybe that was the point. "God, I was appointed Champion, but I don't know what that means, if it doesn't mean doing the right thing and helping others. I don't go to Mass, and this is as as close as I've come to confession in years. I love your churches, and the faith of the people who go there, though I love your nuns more.

"But I know right from wrong. You didn't give me a gift for theology, but you gave me strength and the skill to use it. If there's any truth to what the priests taught me, I'm going to need help to get there. If you want me to rescue myself and my friends, I need direction and a chance to fight. Help me put the demon back where he belongs. For what I've done wrong, I repent, and shall seek to make amends in your service," he ended, surprised at his own formality.

He sat, waiting for an answer.. He sighed, not overly surprised, then turned back to the basin as an idea began to stir. Maybe he'd been given what he needed after all. Experimentally, he touched the water, and yanked his hand back as it burned. Undead flesh smoked in pain, but he curled his hand into a fist. This wasn't real, or at least, was real only to him. The prison seemed solid because it was made from his own mind. To escape, he would have to take it apart, fracture the world. Maybe his first idea of using force hadn't been too far wrong. Instead of going further out, though, he needed to go further in, until he found the truth. Bracing himself and closing his eyes, he slammed his hand down into the basin, seeking the bottom which never came.

At once, he was elsewhere, inside the front room of the Hyperion, looking out from his body as Angelus smooth-talked his best friends. He was trapped behind his own eyeballs, watching the movie from the cheap seats in the theatre. With a sinking feeling, he realized that's what had happened. He'd let himself be trapped in his own mind, the natural order turned upside down. His darkest self was running his body while he'd blithely wandered through his subconscious, or similar. What he usually kept trapped was out, and he didn't know how to put it back.

Experimentally, Angel tried to speak to warn his friends. Instead, what came out was "I'm glad you're fine, Cordelia." The black-haired would-be actress turned private investigator had just entered the room, Doyle right behind her, looking none the worse for wear. The mouth didn't work, wasn't under control. However, the fingers began to twitch, and he smiled inwardly at the partial success. The right hand curled into a fist.

A peculiar expression crossed Angelus's face. Wesley and the others looked concerned.

Cordelia stepped away from Doyle and took a silver cross out of her pocket. With an underhand throw, she lobbed it in his direction. "Hey Angel, catch!"

Involuntary on Angelus' part, and a pure effort of will on Angel's, the hand reached up and snagged the cross. The others began to move, taken back, but Angel's eyes never left Doyle. His hand began to seethe and smoke around the metal object, just as it had when he first touched the basin back on the other side.

A hiss escaped his mouth, and he forced words through his throat. "Get back! You've been played for a fool! I'll explain later, but don't let Doyle escape, and don't get in my way."

Inwardly the struggle raged, but Angel found it easier as the pain gave him something to focus on. He could feel his other self retreating into his mind, locked back into the chapel where the Powers could keep him safe. He opened his hand, branded now with the sign of the cross, as he focused on Doyle.

Doyle turned into his demon form, the spikes and burnt red of a Bracken demon. "Angelus, what are you doing? You'll ruin everything!"

His friends looked shocked, confused and wary at the possibility of that name.

"Don't worry, I've put him back where he belongs. I haven't been myself since the attack at the hotel. Now I'm going to send that traitor Doyle back where he belongs."

Angel lunged forward as the Bracken dematerialized, form already fading as his fist went through him. "No, I don't think I want to go where you'd send me, Angel old buddy… I have other places to go, people to corrupt."

With a parting laugh, he waved, and disappeared entirely with a parting line. "Don't worry. I'm sure the Other Side will be seeing you again, someday…"

Angel stopped and stared, looking at the spot where his friend had been. Angel stopped and stared, looking at the spot where his former best friend had been. Encircling, the remaining friends pointed crossbow and sword at him. Cordy pushed Wesley and Gunn away, though, and came past to give him a hug. "Good to have you back, big guy. I knew you weren't the real deal when you started being so charming all of a sudden. You were too good to be true."

"Cordelia… Angelus is the real deal. He's me too. I almost killed all of you, or worse…"

"Oh hush," and she put a finger to his lips. "Maybe he's real, but you're realer. What matters is that you're running the show again," she said, laying her head on his chest.

Angel hesitated, then hugged her. It looked like the adventure was over. Angelus was wherever Angelus went to, some prison in his mind or a pocket in hell, whichever. Maybe even a chapel? With any luck, some day with a lot of repentance and help he'd learn to take the monster apart. Until then, he'd have to settle for keeping him in check.

Wesley coughed and discreetly laid down his crossbow, while Charles Gunn put the sword back on the rack. "I'm delighted that all is well, though I'm chagrined that I never suspected for a moment what was happening."

"Yeah," Gunn said. "And it ain't over yet. We still have to find out where Doyle went, and who's behind it all… It's not over yet."

"I know," said Angel simply. "We know who's behind it, though. The Other Side. Does it matter what names they have or the faces they wear? We'll keep hunting them down, keep bringing them to light, no matter how long it takes or if it takes eternity."

He looked at Cordelia sharply, wondering if she knew about his experience on the other side, and if he should mention it to her. Was Cordelia one of the Powers? Surely not. That had to be a metaphor, didn't it? He decided he'd rather not know. Instead, he did need to know one thing.

"What do you mean about me not being charming, and knowing it wasn't me? I'd like to hear a little more about that."

Cordelia coughed. "It's more that he was trying to be charming, and that you're sweet when you don't try to work at it…"

Angel still looked suspicious, but let it go at that. It was good to be home. He put his arm around Cordy. "There's a church down the road I've been meaning to visit for some time, and they have a midnight Mass. If I decided to drop by some night, would you be interested?"

The End


End file.
